


Can't Be Afraid of the Wind

by Doreentracy



Category: My living year to year universe, Quantum Leap, Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 17:01:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1436023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doreentracy/pseuds/Doreentracy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a cross with my Quantum Leap universe Living Year to Year and a request for a Sherlock story that is set before the 3rd season started.  I watched all of 2nd and 1st, wrote it and I hope it's faithful.  Comments are very welcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Be Afraid of the Wind

You Can’t Be Afraid of the Wind

Doreen Tracy

A week ago Sherlock had handed him the wrist link. “Wear it,” he’d said. Not one to question what his friend requested, except in moments of lucidity, the small band of light became a part of John Watsons wardrobe, no more noticeable than the small, square faced watch he wore on his left wrist. Other than some dull curiousity about the why it changed color, warmed at times, cooled at others, recently more than usual, he had paid it little mind. 

How was he to know what would happen a week later? Or where this small ring of glowing plastic would lead him? 

To lose a friend to death is one thing, to see him die by his own choice was another. The sight of his flat-mate falling and hitting the ground like so much wet cement sickened and depressed him every time the memory cut quick and sudden. Mundane things, making a sandwich, fixing tea for him and Mrs. Hudson in the little walk up they lived in for now. Turning a burner on the cooker and he would see that vision again, a nightmare that got no easier with time. The broken face, blood almost purple flowing against the pavement. Ache, no one knew the depth of hurt he felt. 

First betrayal--his friend was a fake, then realization that there was a doubt, however small, Moriarty’s words were designed to dismiss all the good Sherlock had done. Mrs. Hudsons profound faith in his friends abilities had provided some healing for the hurt, but not the loss. Oh he missed his friend, the only person he had allowed to get anywhere under Dr. John Watson’s skin. 

In some ways the innuendo about him and Sherlock, the rumors that they shared more than rent payments, didn’t seem to bother him as much as it had before. Somehow it didn’t mean much. Other than Mrs. Hudson he had no one. Even the part time position at the hospital was empty effort, a thing he did to make a few pounds to live on. 

Staring at his reflection in the shop window, he saw a small man, sober expression. clothing that hung on him. Mrs. Hudsons constant persistence about his eating habits lately did not help much. HIs large eyes, looked old and tired. The visit they’d made to the grave was duty, a request made by Mycroft to make sure the stone was correct. 

The image in that smooth granite was the same that caught him now, a dead man walking, feeling nothing, hurting in his heart of hearts without totally knowing why.

The reflection of the town car made him turn. Not again, he sighed. The occasional involuntary audience with Mycroft was wearing thin. Sighing, he turned and hurried to the opened door of the car.

Nothing much changed in Mycrofts world. Same elegant digs, same pleasantries. Same fragrant Earl Grey and tea biscuits not from a tin. 

The older man sat back in the velvet upholstered chair, observing him quietly behind a placid facade. “I suppose Mrs. Hudson is expecting you soon.”

“She is. What is this about, Mycroft? I sent you a note about the stone.”

“This is not about the bloody stone,” he snapped. “Where did you get that device?”

Frowning, Watson glanced down, wondering what the man was referring to. He’d grown so accustomed to wearing the glowing circlet about his wrist he’d hardly thought of it. It was like a watch or bracelet. Mycrofts gaze was riveted on it. “It was a gift,” he stated, settling in his chair, trying his best to look unruffled. 

“Sherlock?”

“Of course,” he replied quickly. It did him some good to see that flash of could it be jealousy in the man’s eyes. “About a week before. What of it?”

“You must be very careful, Watson.” Mycroft was an expert at shielding his emotion, like at the funeral. Nothing, not a quiver of hurt. Just that man in the Oxford suit, a neat pearl pin in his perfectly arranged tie. “I’m warning you because I do care. The man that created that little toy is dangerous.”

“It’s a toy, Mycroft.” With a quick flip of his hand, Watson dismissed the other man’s concern. “It just . . . glows . . . that’s all.”

“It was one of my brothers treasures. I’m sure he was giving it to you as a clue to find the one that made it.”

“Who?”

“He was at the funeral, not that you were in any shape to notice. There and left, quickly, afterwards. I insisted.”

Slowly, Watson went through the faces he remembered from that day. So very few, some people he knew, Mrs. Hudson. Each appeared like a photo in his mind. Sherlock had nurtured John, even assisted in toning his memory, the way he perceived things. 

One person did stand out. A tall American, from the cut of his suit. Hair falling just below the collar of his shirt, blondish or going grey. Sad eyes, deep set, heavy brows, bold nose set above the thin, attractive line of his mouth. Mrs. Hudson had commented at the time we’d been rude not to introduce ourselves. Certainly he’d been more occupied with his own inner torment than to worry about polite formalities.

“His name is Sam Beckett.” That bitter mouth of Mycrofts wasn’t attractive. It was downturned, his nose snubbed up as if he smelled something distasteful. “I see you do remember him. Well, stay quite away from him. Thank God he’s in America. I’ll take that wrist band for safe keeping, I think.”

“You will not.” Almost protectively Watson curled his left hand around the bracelet. “It was a gift, as I said, and it is mine, Mycroft. I suppose with force you could take it. Is it that difficult for you to imagine Sherlock would want someone to have this? What did this Sam Beckett mean to him?”

It was with some relief when he realized Mycroft wasn’t going to make him surrender the device. Or whatever it was. “Just mind my words, Dr. Watson. I should have never uttered the man’s name. My brother had some notions about him, but you know Sherlock, or knew.” 

“Notions? About this Beckett?”

“As much as he could I imagine he admired the man, even for a time . . .” He waved his hand dismissively. “What does it matter?” 

“What was the point of this summons?” Watson snapped the words. “My time, of late, is valuable. I have a job, and Mrs. Hudson is in need of my company. If you have nothing more to say, then I’ll take my leave.”

“Just be careful.” Leaning forward he glanced at my wrist and the glow that resided there. “That thing is dangerous. You think it’s a toy. Let’s just leave it at that. It’s a toy, some kind of friendship bracelet Sherlock left to your guardianship.”

What else could Watson say to this man? made a profession of his brothers so-called safety and preservation. In the end he may have been responsible for Sherlocks final, shall I say, fall? “Good day, then,” he muttered. “I’ll find my own way home, thank you.”

It took over an hour to get home, using buses and the Tube. As expected, Mrs. Hudson had tea waiting, warm biscuits, small sandwiches and ham spread. Watson felt the tension of his audience with Mycroft fall from his shoulders. Rather nice, he thought, resting his jacket over a bentwood chair.

“Nice visit with Mycroft, dear?” Mrs. Hudson poured the tea, fragrant and steaming, into the delicate china cups. 

Blowing on the hot liquid he lifted the cup to his lips and drank. “You knew, of course.”

“My, yes.” Sitting across from him she bit carefully into a warm toffee biscuit. “Saw his big black car and since you were late assumed he had sent a summons.” 

Watson’s mind was politely, but firmly drifting from the woman’s words. His fingers itched to search the internet and find out more about this dangerous man, someone even, it seemed Mycroft feared.

“Did Sherlock . . .” He set his cup down on the small table. “Did he ever speak of someone named Sam Beckett?”

“Most of the time the boy listened as I prattled on. So into his own world, most of the time. Wasn’t he the nice man that was at the funeral, John? So handsome. If Sherlock mentioned him to me, it was in passing, that he was a gentleman he knew, and certainly an American, like that man at the service.”

“Mycroft said he was dangerous,” 

“As well he should, I suppose.” She shrugged into herself a moment. “The boy never spoke much about his past, but I saw that glowy thing you wear once.” The dim early evening light from the window put her features in and out of shadow. “Thought it was pretty, and Sherlock said, that’s not a toy. When I asked where he got it, he said, ‘from a man far more clever than me, Mrs. Hudson’. Imagine that, Sherlock admitting someone was more intelligent than he was! Can you imagine, John?”

“No,” I said briefly. “And this man?”

“That Sam Beckett. I’m sure of it.” Leaning over she patted my hand and met my gaze. “Only Mycroft would think a thing of such beauty was a danger. I think it’s rather useful, don’t you? It’s quite pretty, lends a bit of character.”

“It does at that, Mrs. Hudson.” I set the cup down and leaned back in the soft chair. It was dim outside, cold and misty like London gets on a autumn evening. “For him, I mean Sherlock, to have kept this . . . memento . . . he must have thought highly of the man.”

“I suppose so. Maybe you should look this man up, John. I was under the impression he had the glowy thing for quite some time.”

***********

For the short time I’d known my friend there was so much more I did not know. Certainly, I knew his likes and dislikes, to a degree. Knew nothing of his childhood, only that he had a mother who thought more of Mycroft than her younger, and much more gifted son. Turning my right wrist I gazed upon the device with something akin to wonder. What was it? Was it’s purpose more than ornamental, a toy? Mycroft seemed to think it was. 

Perhaps the worst thing he could have possibly done is expressed any interest in the thing, or Sam Beckett. Suddenly, and with some surprise I felt I wanted to search out this man that had meant something to Sherlock. A person that would travel to England from America for someone’s funeral, and show true remorse at my friend’s passing. Maybe too, remembering the set of his lips, the darkness in his eyes, some guilt, as well.

“Mrs Hudson, what would you think if I said I would want to meet this man?”

“It would mean a trip abroad, dear.” She didn’t look in the least bit anxious or bothered by such a suggestion. “I can look after things, while you’re gone. You can use a change of scenery. In fact, I was thinking of taking myself a nice trip to the shore, for a while.” Her bright face was tired and drawn, much like mine. “It might help.”

On the flight to New York I was still wondering why I would take this trip, why it meant anything to find this man and perhaps try to discover a little more of my friend than he was willing to give me. Was this just foolishness, I thought, gazing over the tops of clouds, lit by moonlight, would I even manage to meet the man? 

Of course, I’d done some research. Wikipedia had a small entry on him, very general terms. Nothing specific. Born in 1954 he was a good twenty years older than Sherlock or I. It would make him pushing sixty now. There was no mention of any danger in the entry, just that he rarely made an appearance and held many doctorates. A man that appreciated seclusion. Lived on a farm, imagine that, in a state called Indiana. 

I dreamed. Long flight, closed my eyes, swept into a dream where a dark form stalked the clouds outside the window. Arm outstretched I strived to reach him, the face so clear, piercing blue eyes, a thin, white face. So clear, seemingly miles from my window, then closer. That little twitchy smile when he was pleased with something. The closer he came, the more apprehensive I felt until every muscle tensed, his eyes even with mine just outside the plane, resting on me, satisfied.

I woke with a jolt. The announcement that we were making our final approach to New York. Roughly wiping the tears away with the back of my hand, I gathered myself together. The next leg of my journey had begun.

Now as a habit, I have well-tuned radar, as it were. As I struggled through humanity at the airport, bumping and banging my way through crowds of adult, squalling babies, screaming tots. Been some time since I’d been in an airport, years in fact, since my return from war.

Once I managed to make my way out of the concourse my head hurt, and, despite the nap I’d taken on the flight I was weary to my bones. And, despite, the dulling of my senses, I had the uncanny feeling of being watched. Not surprising, Mycroft would have eyes here across the Pond. Shrugging into the old fatigue jacket, I hefted my pack and headed towards the exit. Perhaps there was a bus of some sort, inexpensive.

How pointless was it to finally arrive in the States and not quite know how to proceed? And what of this Indiana? If Mycroft said this man was so dangerous he’d have a fortress, guards, possibly some kind of underground bunker.

Why hadn’t he thought through this more? What little he could find on the man didn’t even indicate if he were alive or dead. Born in 1954. That made him at least sixty. 

My God, John Watson, what have you gotten yourself into? For what purpose would this serve, disturbing this man’s life?

“Sir?”

My head lifted from my contemplation. A man of slender build faced me, his voice softly accented, noticeable even with one word. “I’m your ride,” the man said. “Neil Adamson, at your service.”

“Excuse me?” Protectively I drew the pack in front of me. I’d brought very little, not wanting a burden to carry. How Sherlock would have berated me, no preparation, no idea how I was to get from here to there.

Those large grey eyes studied me carefully. He had an angular face, much like Holmes. Largish nose, peering at me, greying hair that was mussed. It was a windy day, chill. Wore one of those long coats, warm but practical. Hid a million sins. “I was sent by the one you seek. My car is at the curb. You’re in no danger, Dr. Watson.”

“Ah . . .how am I to know that?” I clutched my backpack even tighter. “I’ve never seen you before.”

Sighing, the stranger deftly lifted the cuff of the left sleeve of his coat. I saw the glow, swallowed hard. “We have a ten hour trip, John. I’m sure you will sleep through most of it. Shall we?”

Yorkshire, I thought, his accent beckoned from there. Sliding into the passenger seat. Adamson had taken my backpack and set it within reaching distance. I’d left a message on Mrs. Hudsons mobile phone that I had arrived and had no other need of communication. The tight smile of my driver inspired no confidence in me, no trust. Again I debated my wisdom in making this rash journey. What was I thinking? 

The dream returned to me as I gazed out at the New York City skyline. It was wreathed in mist. Oh I was so far from home. Closing my eyes I saw Sherlock’s narrow face in my mind, that funny smile he had, not a grin, as American’s would say, or showing happiness. The “outsmarted them again’ look. A crook of a grin, nothing more than that, something he must have practised in mirror to make sure it was presentable.

It hurt so much inside. 

“Are you hungry? We can stop for a bite.”

If anything, I has less of an appetite than I had on the flight. “Tell me,” I said, feeling somewhat braver. “Who are you?”

A slanted look passed between the two of us. As he turned onto a motorway. American cars, so many of them, wrecks, limos, huge lorrys. I saw the barest trace of a weapon under his right arm. It didn’t frighten me as much as it was no surprise at all. 

“I’m not an enemy,” he began. “I’m a security person, I’ve been in the employ of Dr. Beckett for more than twenty years. Never leaves home now. I still work for him and the Admiral.”

Admiral?

“I’m sure you’re very tired, Dr. Watson. Please just sit back and rest. It will take us some time and I do plan to stop for coffee. We’re in no danger and I could use some.”

He seemed a good sort, but as I realized over time, looks could be deceiving. I accepted the tea with reservation, hating the slight bitter taste. Nothing like a good British cuppa but it would have to do. Face the facts, John, I thought to myself. You’ve really done it this time, no planning, no thought. Just that deep end of the Thames and into the brink with no real reason. 

My driver eyed me oddly. “You’re a doctor, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I replied, hesitant. “Of a sort. And you say you’re a . . .security person?”

“Of a sort,” he mimicked. “Dr. B asked me to go to New York, that you were arriving on flight so and so. He asks, I do it. And it seems you come when he calls, too.”

Well. I stiffened at that. What in the world was he implying? “He didn’t call me,” I snapped. “I came of my own accord.”

For only a moment he glanced over at my what Mrs. Hudson referred to as ‘my glowy thing’. “If you’re wearing that, he called you.”

Instinctively I wrapped my fingers over the bracelet and felt, not for the first time, a warmth. Uneasily, I lifted my eyes and for the first time, saw a mirror of the device on Adamson’s wrist, a friendly blue glow, not moth green, cool and soft, like mist. Swallowing hard, I rested in my seat, unable to respond to what he’d stated. Reasonable sense told me to have the man drop me at the nearest stop and take the next flight home. My innate and annoying curiousity won out. I didn’t want to know who or what this Dr. Beckett was. I had to meet him, for the sake of my own sanity and the memory of the one I’d lost.

Hours and hours. I did doze a bit, said less than nothing to the security man. Seemed friendly enough, kind sort, but something threatening and savage way down deep. He was not in the least way transparent. 

“We’re here,” he finally said, shutting off the engine. And I woke up, blinking the sleep from my eyes. 

It was a farm. Idyllic, peaceful. A large red barn, ample house with what seemed to be no frills. Green grass. the scent of fresh, country air. The American dream I guessed, about a hundred years in the past. The air was cool, not unlike a late winter day back home on Baker street. It brought back a memory of a slim, pale face, a quizzical smile. Why was I here?

Our feet crunched on the ice covered gravel driveway. Neil hadn’t said much since the comment about the thing on my wrist. I heard a screen door creak and someone held open the front door of the house.

The hardwood floors glowed from polish. The interior screamed warmth, home. It was alien to me. There was some clutter; I glimpsed a large parlor with walls filled with books. Lamps glowed, dark red lights on a small Christmas tree. 

Kitchen was light, filled with the bright winter sun. Yellow painted walls, stainless steel appliances, the fridge and cooker top of the line. Setting a thick mug of tea in front of me and a plate of fragrant scones, fresh baked with a large pat of butter on the side. “He’ll be here in a minute.”

“Who?”

“Who do you think? Dr. Beckett.”

It grew very quiet after Neil left me. Just alone in the kitchen with my thoughts. I sipped at the tea and it was good. Other than one swallow food stuck in my throat. What had I gotten myself into?

There were voices outside. One soft, not Neil, questioning, concerned. I’d had enough, not having much patience in any way when I wanted to find things out now. My friend had died several weeks ago, I’d had this . . . toy . . . before that. Mycroft had opened my mind to concern about it and here I was, in the United States about to meet the man that created it. A man, Mycroft had said, was dangerous. I had some reason to not trust him completely but he had given me food for thought.

The screen door slapped closed behind me as I left the warm kitchen into the yard. Then I saw him. His head had turned when I’d walked out. It was the man who’d been at Sherlocks funeral. He wore a black shirt with a v-neck that showed he was physically fit, lean arms, long hair that curled softly around a strong neck. I was close enough to see the weariness in his eyes, the lines around them, the concern in the gaze, true compassion and worry. In four steps, a very long stride, he was in front of me. Unlike most, he did not extend a hand, or try to embrace me in some way, just waited. It wasn’t my fashion to be touched much.

“I’m glad you came, John Watson,” he said. What a voice, soft, tender, with the same kindness that shone in his greenish gold gaze. “We missed each other at the funeral.”

“Missed?” I shrugged. “I didn’t even know who you were, or why you were there.”

“Maybe I can explain,” he replied. “Lets go to my office.”

They led me towards the barn, Neil trailing protectively behind both of us. Took his job seriously. Once the door was slid closed behind us I stared, almost agape. 

I’d never seen so much sophisticated equipment in my entire life in one large space. Lights, glowing much like my friend’s toy, blinking, reaching up to the heights above us. A great cavernous ceiling, a platform running the length of the building, a few people working on things, stabbing at buttons, all in casual dress. A man with long, thick hair sticking straight up glanced at us and smiled as he stalked by.

“That’s Dr. Roskow-we call him ‘Mother’. “ The man I knew was Dr. Beckett steered me towards a line of glass enclosed offices. “I’m sure you have questions, and I’ll answer them as best I can.”

Someone had hung a sign by the door, “The Doctor is In”. It was a very relaxed atmosphere for a place this sophisticated. 

“Ziggy, privacy mode, please.” The door slid closed behind us, Adamson seated outside the door. “First of all, any time you want to leave you can. You are not a prisoner here.”

Suddenly I realized I had been clutching my bag almost the entire time. My fingers ached as I released it onto the floor. Rubbing my hands together to revive the circulation, I eyed him carefully. Most of the time I tried to choose my words carefully, especially around strangers. “Why were you at the funeral?”

“Good enough.” He was sitting across from me in a soft leather chair that was well worn in spots. For that matter, the entire place, gleaming with technology, seemed comfortable and used. Like a well-loved home, right down the curious man he called ‘Mother’. Rumpled, worn, distracted, a coil of wire in one hand, a greyish sandwich in the other. 

“So . . . here goes.” He stared down at a spot on the floor, frowning. 

“Mycroft said the man that created this was dangerous.” I lifted my wrist so he could clearly see the object that in turn warmed and worried me. “You know him, don’t you?”

Grimacing, Beckett crossed his jean clad legs and wrapped his hands over his knee. “His little brother was a nuisance, he said. Just before I met him.”

I waited. Words were carefully chosen by this man, just as I did. 

“Many years ago, I met Mycroft at a funding event in London. My partner didn’t think much of the man, but we needed support and he was on the list. Sometimes I think I should have listened more to Al than I did. Mycroft was a mushbrain, but clever. You know that? He didn’t have any social graces, just out to impress people with his position. Al . . .Admiral Calavicci . . . is not easily impressed with anyone. That’s why he has my back.”

“You met Sherlock through Mycroft? I hardly think . . .”

“Mycroft is a frustrating, overwhelming ass.” He bit out the words. “Somehow during the dull conversation we had he mentioned his little brother. An intelligent young man. He’d been diagnosed with autism. Mycroft felt he was weak, in dire need of the guidance a military school would offer. Something strict, brutal. You see, I listened to this in silence. It wasn’t my business, this young boy. Al was the one who offered our home here, to mentor him. To help him along. Al, and I, it occurred to us, after Mycroft told us of Sherlock, that the boy wasn’t autistic, he was gifted. Brilliant. And he needed a family.”

“And Mycroft allowed this?” I said with a tinge of disbelief. I’d known nothing of Sherlocks childhood, or early life. Just that his mother wasn’t spoke of, she favored Mycroft. Mycroft was over-protective and stifling. The only reason Sherlock was independent was a stubborn streak as long as the day.

“I didn’t bond with Sherlock--but then who could? Al said to give it time and we took him back to New Mexico with us. I’d managed to build a life there, with the project, which was in it’s early stages then.”

With his words I saw my friend, only very young, angry. Darkened with fury, betrayal. Silent. Mycroft, persuaded by the brilliant young scientist and the Admiral to take his brother into hand, toughen him, bring him into the world. 

For days the boy did not speak. Even the brimming over gentleness of Sam Beckett did not persuade Sherlock he was not forced into some situation, to travel to a place not of his choosing. Betrayal, distrust. Wrapped in a black cape and brooding from London to the desert of New Mexico. Seated, silent, furious.

What had Beckett gotten himself into? Compassion for a hurt bird, a bird with talons and teeth and intelligence. The boy reeked of smarts, no doubt about that. If he wasn’t sitting silently, eyes black and bottomless, he was scribbling in a book, a ledger, words, words. Nothing said, no words. 

Could he see his friend, John thought, this alone child, just coming out of his teens, remote from all, his family, what there was of it? A mother who had told Beckett to take him and he’d have no luck drawing him out. That she hated her own child, that he was nothing? After all, she’d said, she had Mycroft, and thank God for him. A comfort for her old age, a support at all times. Sherlock, her little ‘freak’, strange, stupid, a defect in her perfect world. How lovely she had looked, hair coiffed, clothing and shoes all in symetry. Holding the cup so, her words mincing and careful, signing some paperwork Mycroft had insisted on, giving Beckett temporary custody. Unfortunate it could not be permanent. 

No one saw the boy off on his first journey from home. Not even the brother who said he cared most. No one. Alone with strangers, uncared for and lost.

Six days into his life in New Mexico something happened. No one was quite sure when Ziggy had come into Sherlock’s life, or started speaking to him in a way the boy understood. A world of color, few words, recognition of his gifts. Another word, trust, trust my father, Ziggy had said. Trust the Admiral. 

Something deep inside the boy listened, acknowledged the wisdom of the computers words and attempted to open to his new world. Little things, small instances, like allowing Sam to brew him a cup of tea, or watching as the older man wrote intricate equations on paper he left about the place for Sherlock to find. Like dreams and smoke in numbers and letters, music in a way, to be deciphered and understood. Finally, to take one of those small bits and offer it to Beckett. 

“What does this mean?” he asked. It was the first thing Sherlock had said in seven days. “Tell me now.”

Without hesitation, Beckett gave of his great mind to the boy, careful not to push too hard, longing so much to put an arm around the smaller shoulders, to offer some of the warmth Sam had always known, from his family, his friends. Albert, the Admiral in all of this, watched quietly, knowing the kind of alchemy Beckett offered that had changed him into someone who could accept love again.

One night, Sherlock woke and felt this odd sensation. A scream. Not in his life, his controlled life, had he ever made a sound like that. It just wasn’t encouraged in his world. Why? Carefully, he thought over the reasons for such a thing, a dream he had, about St. Paul’s in London, the warm summer sun, a flutter of birds and such a feeling of loneliness. Hurting inside to feel London again, to be separated from the only thing he cared about--a place. 

To his surprise, the bedroom door opened and Beckett was there. He was in his sleeping clothes, hair tousled and concern drawing his wide brows together. Turning on the lamp at his bedside, Sherlock looked up into gold - green eyes and saw . . . caring. Worry. 

“A bad dream?” Beckett had said.

“Is. . . that . . . what it was?”

“You cried out.” Sinking on the edge of the bed, Sam reached out and touched back several dark curls from Sherlock’s forehead. 

Lifting his thin, white hand, the boy touched Sam’s fingers and eased the hand down so he could look at it. The grey eyes were quizzical, as if he had never been touched before, at least in kindness or concern. Slowly, he traced his fingers over the other man’s, frowning at the warmth that radiated from them. Not cold, not like his tutor that slapped him when he didn’t respond to a question. No, Dr. Beckett was . . . kind. And he cared. 

“You care,” Sherlock said quietly. “You know nothing of the world, do you?”

“I do.” Memory of others that had abused him in school, marked Sam’s features. Those that didn’t understand his genius, laughed and berated him. Not his family, of course, who had always cared. The thought of this child who had seemingly never known a kindness chilled him. “You need a new world, Sherlock,” he said finally. He eased the boy’s hand into his own. Careful. Supportive. “Maybe we can learn together.”

There were conditions to my continued custody of Sherlock. Monthly reports were sent to Mycroft of his brothers progress. He did not want to know about his emotional growth, just his mental prowess. I made sure Sherlock saw every note I sent, nothing was kept from him. Someone this intelligent also needed to know that, as little as Mycroft behaved as a brother should, he at least cared a little. More or less, my young friend was indifferent to it. No one was asking him to come home for a visit and at this point, with my project still in the planning stages I had unlimited time for Sherlock. All the time in the world.

It was Al that suggested the camping trip. Just a rented RV and time in the mountains to see fall. Or autumn as Sherlock insisted. He was opening and changing like a season and it was something to see. His yearning to learn everything all at once was like looking in a mirror at myself at his age. The tutor we hired was adequate; socializing the boy with kids his own age was just not possible. He was so far beyond them and would have no defense of their cruelty. There was so much he was reticent to share, his childhood, the months alone with strangers at tender ages. No wonder he’d been willing to be taking away with Al and I, not even a goodbye or second look at his brother as we left. 

Knowing as much as I missed my brother...

“You had a brother?” 

“Yes, John.” The sparkling green eyes were clouded. “He survived the war.”

“And?” Then this man did know of what it took to live as I had. Losing someone. From the look on his face he had lost this brother.

“He . . . wasn’t well. Something went wrong and he died. He killed himself.” 

Deep down, I knew Sherlock idolized his brother Mycroft in his way. A deep way, too way down for anyone to understand. Even himself.

So. We went camping. Hiked. Swam in an ice cold river and roasted hot dogs over an open fire. We all let our hair down, including Al. The Admiral was not the type of person that simply let anyone in. Him and Sherlock, their relationship was very give and take. An equal in all things. Two dark heads together investigating a mole, or discussing physics and the formation of stars in the clear sky at night. For me, it was pure pleasure to see my friend and the boy and the New Mexico sky.

And a smile. A small one, to be sure, but a smile on that solemn face. Matched by the one on Al’s. 

Soon, Christmas was around the corner. There was no invitation forthcoming from England. Inside I hurt for Sherlock. I became blunt with my note and asked Mycroft if they wanted his brother home for the holiday. 

The response was a shock. After a discussion with his mother, Mycroft stated that his family was much better off without his brother. The financial support would always be there but life had become less complicated without the boy and they welcomed my interest and advised they would not be needing him back soon. Like a box of borrowed goods. 

I broke the news to Sherlock carefully, explaining that he would be with us over the holidays. Recently, I had taught the boy how to use a sword, some martial arts. He’d picked the exercises up like nothing, was becoming a skilled artist with foil and saber, almost outwitting me in judo and the other strengths we worked at together. 

Almost quizzically, he set down the weapon he’d been hefting and, after a moment, dipped his head up, eyes questioning. “Holidays?” he said. 

“You know, Christmas,” I replied. I knelt down to his level. He was so much more smaller than I. “We’ll get the tree and trimmings. It might be the last time I can celebrate before . . .”

“You will leave, Dr. Beckett.” He shrugged, replacing the sword in it’s scabbard. “I didn’t expect less. What’s this Christmas?”

It had never occured to me Sherlock knew nothing of holidays, birthdays. Come to think of it, I had no idea when his birthday was, or what he was accustomed to. Taking a chance, I reached and grasped his shoulder gently. “It’s the holy day, Sherlock. The day our Lord was born.”

That solemn face took in my words, his lower lip slightly puffed out. “I know of the Lord,” he finally said. I’ve read all of the Bible, some parts twice. It’s a fiction, isn’t it?”

“It’s true, I was brought up to believe every word.”

“Even the part about the seas parting and gigantic whales that eat men?” The laughter touched his face.

“And the Man that died for our sins and gives us hope of heaven,” I stated. “The reason for Christmas and his birth, Sherlock. We celebrate, with gifts and all kinds of fun but we try to remember the real reason, that Christ was born under simple circumstances to make us free.”

It was one of those moments where Sam could hear the gears turn. A boy that had never had a birthday or a holiday celebration. Inwardly, he was furious with Mycroft and the boys mother. Their treatment of him was beyond abuse. No wonder he had no sense of anything besides himself.

Shortly before the tree arrived, Sam had to beg Al to allow it. With some reservation the older man acquiesed. If this was the only chance they had, Sherlock would have a Christmas and birthday all rolled into one.

The church services were solemn, impressive. Al had begged off going to mass and Sam knew better than to push. Making sure Sherlock was dressed appropriately and his wild mane of black curls somewhat settled they entered the chruch for Christmas Eve services. The boys eyes were everywhere, searching the old desert church for a sign of something, perhaps this mythical person that Dr Beckett respected and thanked for this season. The statues were kind, the lovely lady holding a small child in her arms. Something drew him to the statue; it was the only one where the people were smiling. 

Recalling Al’s instructions, Sam set a few dollars in the poor box and crossed himself as he genuflected by the pew. The boy slid in next to him, huddled into himself, large eyes taking in the candles and inhaling a sharp but gentle scent of incense. 

“Are you cold?” 

“No.” Sherlock looked from Sam’s face to the dimly lit church around him. People of all kinds, black, hispanic, entering, paying tribute to the symbols and returning to the pews around them. The ceremony where he simply mimicked what the others did, the kneeling, crossing themselves, a small book shared with Dr. Beckett that they read prayers and responses from. It all meant very little to the boy but for some reason, deep down, it comforted him, too. At one moment, holding a wax candle in the darkness and the sweet sound of a violin solo. Sam glimpsed a very small light in the boy’s eyes. He couldn’t resist resting his hand on the small shoulder, to be rewarded by a look of sheer awe in the dark grey eyes. A shared joy, as Sam dearly loved music of any kind and saw a kinship there.

Time was short, Sam knew. Soon, he would either have to commit himself to the Project full time or delay his return so he could continue his guidance of his ward. It tormented him. Sherlock still had so much to learn, to discover. 

Christmas day passed with simplicity. The lit tree, the gifts, even a forced phone call to Mycroft so he could be cornered into wishing his little brother some form of greeting for the holiday. A hard core of bitterness was growing between the man and Sam. If the arrangement could only be permanent. . . but that was up to Sherlock. 

The project was all consuming, to the point where Sam finally decided taking Sherlock with he and Al each day would do no harm. Education in a public setting was out of the question; the boy could not function well with others his age. The few occasions the boy had been introduced to people his own age he reverted into a silent, grim image of the boy he’d met in England. 

It turned out to be almost ideal. Sherlock was gifted with logic and understanding of complicated programming. Ziggy in her most primitive form was a friend to him, and his quick intelligence worked on the accounting and problems that the Admiral gave him. Busy work, practical and enough exercise for an active mind, wanting with all his heart to know everything. 

Exploring the open caverns in the depths of the Project, a large empty place that echoed, Sam and Al gifted Sherlock with the one precious gift they had not been able to procure until after the holiday. The violin became a treasure. For hours Sherlock would practice with a finesse no music tutor could guide. Lovely sounds that murmured and caressed the sides of the ancient rock, drifting up to where the scientists labored and dreamed. 

Sometimes the giant computer would echo a tone of the solo, a small chamber orchestra that became the dearest and most heartfelt feelings of the young man’s heart. Here, in this dark place, living the dream of a man he truly admired, he made music and was able to concentrate on what he held most dear. And he was happy.

And this joy grew him wings. He flew under the tutelage of the others involved in the project and admiring gaze of Sam Beckett and the Admiral. His contributions were treasured and rewarded. He felt he wanted for nothing.

There was never a day that didn’t go by something new and interesting was accomplished or a a moment that didn’t satisfy either his brain or body. The three men ran for miles, fought, worked with every weapon known and became brilliant. Al taught him the science of weapons and armory and he drank deep of every drop. 

As Sherlocks mind opened and grew, so did the project and soon Sam and Al knew the time was coming to give the boy a choice. The meeting was set in the living room of the big house, a place established of trust and teaching. 

“It’s only a matter of time,” Al said. Sam sat very close to his friend and Sherlock saw how the two older men had grown together as he had with them. It wasn’t just the project, but something deeper. “We want you with us but everything is becoming more complicated. In a month or two the Project will be fully operational. Do you know what that means, Sherlock?”

The dark head nodded. “And I understand.” He drew lazy circles in the carpet with the bow of the violin he treasured above all his possessions. He lifted his head and met those green eyes of Dr. Beckett, a man he so admired, and the dark ones of the Admiral, a person he treasured above any father. “My brother says he’s secured a place for me to live and learn. There are many things I want to know and finally he’s given me the freedom to choose which ones.” A quirky smile touched his face. “You’ve shown me I do have the choice. And without. . . Mama’s interference.”

“Just stick to your guns, kiddo.” Al’s voice was so sad. “I really hate to have you go. Once Sam . . .”

Beckett took the older man’s hand in his and lifted it to his lips. Sherlock saw the pure love and devotion in the gesture. And trust. It was a another precious gift to be trusted with this secret. He saw the love grow between the two men in the past few weeks, respected it, accepted it as a normal progression of the relationship between them. 

“I’ll let you know when it’s time,” Sam said, his voice shaking. He was afraid, Sherlock realized and placed it with the other treasures in that new place-his heart. Now he knew it was acceptable to voice your fear and be a man. He returned his gaze to the young man across from him. There was a small silver box on the table between them. It was smooth and burnished. Passing a hand over the top it slid open to reveal three glowing bands. Al took one, slid it over his hand to rest against his wrist. 

It glowed blue. The one Sam offered to Sherlock glowed a moth green, soft, like home. Taking it from Beckett, he put it on and felt a warmth spread from his pulse to his heart. Sam’s link was white/blue seemed to merge with their other two colors.

“If you ever need us,” Sam said. “This will bring you home. I trust you with it, Sherlock. We can’t be parted as long as you wear this.”

“It’s a monitor?”

“A link, to Ziggy, to Al, and, once I return . . . to me.”

“You have no idea if it will work.” It was not a question the young man asked. He was certain there was no question that the scientist would step in that machine and risk his life. Sherlock refused to allow himself to worry. 

“You must know it’s never been tried before. When and if I use the Accelerator I want to be sure of one thing. That you’re safe.” He rested one of his slender hands over Sherlocks. “Put it on. Please.”

Sherlock slid the link over his wrist and wondered how he could keep it from being noticed by others. Pretend it’s a toy, some American gadget, he decided. 

A week later they were at the airport, he and Sam only. Al was not good at partings. A moment at the gate, eyes met, and he finally allowed Sam to hug him, hold him and press him close. Something in him hurt, but he wrapped his arms around this man that had given him so much and made a silent wish, which he now knew was not foolish, that he would hold him again someday.

“Did you ever see him again?” John asked.

Beckett’s head dipped. For a moment there was a brightness in the man’s eyes, almost tears. “I knew there was something wrong about a week before he died. Ziggy felt the link was different and she always keeps me up to date on things like that. That link is very special.” Sam met Watson’s apt gaze. “May I see it?”

Reluctantly, John slid the link, was that what he called it?, from his wrist and handed it to the other man. 

Taking it in his fingers, Sam studied it, the glowing green reflecting on his face, a beautiful light. Watson wondered at the kindness of his expression, a tender sorrow. 

“This is the essence of Sherlock, John.” Smoothing his fingers over the plastic and technology he felt his hand shake. “Each link is unique for that owner. This was made for him, imprinted with the ingrams of his mind. It’s intelligent and very protective.” His voice broke as he lowered it to the table between them. “As you saw him fall I felt it in my link, as Al did.” 

“I . . . couldn’t stop it. I’m sorry, Dr. Beckett.” Taking a breath, Watson leaned back in the chair. He felt he’d been here all his life, he felt so comfortable. “But now I know why Mycroft said you were dangerous.”

The greenish eyes widened. “Oh?”

“You were the one person he could not compete with. And win.”

“And Sherlock trusted me, and my secrets.” Reaching into his pocket, Sam drew out a package wrapped in soft white paper. “If you don’t mind I would like you to have this.”

Unwrapping the gift, Watson almost gasped. It was ultraviolet, this link, glowing even more lovely than the one he’d wore. 

“For you to be a part of Sherlock’s life, you must have a link, too. Few people are given them, these are unique, not some communication device others wear around here. This is for you and if you wish, for me to keep track of your feelings, that’s all. Emotions, stress. Not an invasion of privacy but enough to keep you as a part of the connection we had with Sherlock.”

He lifted the green link and handed it back to Watson. “I would like you to wear this - to keep it for him.”

“For him? He’s dead.” Watson accepted the link and pushed it back on his wrist with his own. They looked good together, like they belonged. 

Sam stared at him very hard, as if deciding to say something. HIs mouth firmed. It was a very expressive mouth indeed. 

“Sherlocks’ alive, John. Or that link would not be glowing.” Over Watson’s astonishment, the door behind them opened. “You must be hungry. Tea?”

End.


End file.
